


Room to Grow

by Enderheart13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Johnlock - Freeform, No Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags will be updated, much feelings, not really a serious relationship, plot divergence, rough times for John and Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enderheart13/pseuds/Enderheart13
Summary: Following a two weeks worth of hospital stay, Sherlock Holmes was more or less the same person. Still snarky, a smart ass, and an absolute genius. It was just that now- he was quiet. He talked no less than before, if not more. He was just barely audible, which sometimes made him even more unbearable than before. Other times John found it absolutely mesmerizing to watch Sherlock solve a crime in nearly less than five minutes, muttering to himself, his eyes darting across the scene taking in every single detail. Sure, there were going to be many bumps in the road, but they both had room to grow.





	Room to Grow

John had no solid answer as to why Sherlock had suddenly grown quiet. There was the possibility of him losing his hearing, but that didn't seem likely. An even more likely theory could be some hidden damage to his throat or vocal chords, but it seemed to John that this problem resided somewhere in Sherlock’s mind, as he was not always this quiet. It pained him not to know how to help him. Often times when Sherlock had something important to say, he wasn't able to raise his voice. He made the effort, but he couldn't physically do it. It seemed to John a little like hesitation made worse by frustration, and he knew a big part of the frustration was not wanting to make a fool of himself.

He had been there, in the hospital, the first time it happened. Sherlock had tried to make a snarky comment after the nurse left, likely about being able to care for himself, but when he tried to speak it sounded like he had been strangled. His hand shot up to cover his mouth, steel blue eyes wide with what looked like fear. He leaned back into the bed and curled into himself. John could practically see the horrible thoughts racing through Sherlock’s mind, what could be wrong, why that happened, there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with him because there was no evidence of flaw or injury. 

John had no idea what to do, or if there was anything he could do. Sherlock was extremely stubborn, he never let anyone help him. He was too full of himself for that. Or at least that was what John had thought, and he still believed that was part of it, but he had the feeling there was more to it than he had first thought. It happened several more times throughout the hospital stay. The nurses thought that his reaction was over dramatic. Granted, yes, Sherlock was rather over dramatic, John still sensed there was something more behind his reaction. A lot would change in the coming weeks, though John didn't know that yet.

Sherlock retreated to his room as soon as they got back to the flat and for days John couldn't get him to come out. One day, while he was sitting outside Sherlock’s door, trying to think of what to say to him to convince him to come out, his phone rang. It was Lestrade with a case, double murder and locked doors, and it was apparent that there was no suicide. John turned around and knocked on the door. “Double murder and quite few locked doors, Sherlock, they need help.” The weirdest thing happened after he said that. John immediately heard foot steps and the door opened, but instead of immediately denying or accepting the case, he just sat down in front of John, leaning against the door frame a little. John didn't know what to say, yet again, so he sat there trying his best to keep Sherlock’s intense gaze. Then, after what seemed like a few minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke. “Why.” He said, and it was the quietest John had ever heard him. Quieter than a whisper, but he heard. “Why what, Sherlock?” A wave of what looked like doubt, or maybe regret, crossed his face, but disappeared as soon as it appeared. “Everything.” The response confused John for a moment, but he understood. It was very general. Why couldn't he talk? Why did it happen to him? Why did any of this happen to him? He could find the answers to anything except for himself. It terrified him and he didn't know why. 

John stood up, holding his hand out for Sherlock to take. “We have a case, Sherlock. Nothing has changed. You’re a consulting detective and I'm your blogger, now, are we going?” John couldn't read the expression on Sherlock’s face. No way. He didn't mind, though, because Sherlock took his hand and stood up, taking the lead and hailing a cab. The whole cab ride there Sherlock was talking to himself. He already seemed much more awake and alert than he had the past few days home, which reassured John that maybe things could go back to normal. 

Those hopes were stepped on quite a bit when they arrived on the scene, though. Sherlock was fine until Anderson started taunting him, not on purpose at first but as soon as he realized Sherlock couldn't speak it was relentless. John was able to get Lestrade to escort Anderson away, but the damage had been done. He could see Sherlock fuming. His thoughts from earlier, the doubts he had, were forgotten. He was angry. Beyond angry. 

He finished his work and John could tell he was going to do something. Something stupid, but he didn't want to stop Sherlock, as horrible as that may have been. The more he and everyone else let Sherlock figure these things out, the better off they would be, so when Sherlock strode up to Anderson and socked him straight in the chin he couldn't help the feeling to smile. He pushed Anderson and pulled his legs from underneath him, leaning down close to his ear to say something. Something terrifying, apparently, because Anderson scrabbled up and moved away from Sherlock.

No one dared question what had just happened because moments later Sherlock was at John’s sides walking him over to Lestrade. John helped him explain to Lestrade what was going on, and then the details of the case. Sherlock had it solved, so they left back to the flat. Destruction happened immediately. Bullet holes riddled the wall, glass was shattered. Papers were flung all across the flat and John flinched when he heard chairs get thrown from the kitchen. The glass and papers he could handle, but the chairs made him nervous. 

 

He’d never actually seen Sherlock this upset. Right as he peeked behind the wall, he saw Sherlock, hands gripped tight to the kitchen table, lifting it up with incredible force. Papers flew across the living area’s floor again, along with the table, and even more glass shattered, tiny pieces scattering into hidden places. He ran the moment he saw Sherlock go for the matches but didn't make it in time to stop him from throwing it into the paper. He grabbed the match quickly, still lit, before it could start a large fire, he started to stomp out the small flames that had sprung up. He heard a large thud behind him and knew instantly that it was Sherlock. A second, more solid, thud sounded, echoing across the the room. He turned, finally putting the flames just barely out, and ran over to Sherlock, who’s head was resting on the wooden floor. He was trembling horribly, covered in sweat. John guessed the second thud was probably Sherlock’s head. He had curled in on himself, nails raking down his forehead. John tugged his arms against his side, clasping his in front of Sherlock’s chest.

“Please stop,” he whispered, “You need to stop this Sherlock, you need to let me help.” At those words, Sherlock started to struggle against John’s grip, pushing his legs from underneath him, weight falling into John’s chest. John was stronger in this situation, and he was able to keep a strong grip on Sherlock’s arms, using his feet to keep his legs still as well. “Sherlock please, you can't do this to yourself. You can't…” his voice cracked and trailed off, he had no idea what was going on in Sherlock’s head, what had built up to this outburst. 

Sherlock stilled for a few moments before bending down, squeezing John’s arms. He screamed, long and loud as if it were the last thing he knew to do. There was pain in his scream, pains and fear and doubt. He stopped screaming after a few minutes, voice nearly gone and his body trembling uncontrollably. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s back, unsure what else he could do to let him know he was there other than just sit with him. No words could do that properly. 

He loosened his grip on Sherlock’s arms, giving him a chance to escape if he wanted, though hopefully he knew better than to leave the flat if he did. To John’s surprise, he made no move to leave. He just sat there, still trembling, in John’s arms.

That moment, though John didn't know, was quite a changing point to Sherlock. No one had ever really attempted to stop him when he was like that, to tell him they were there for him, to help. No one had ever truly made that effort. Sure, Mycroft was usually worrying about one thing or the other, but John held him down and wouldn't let go. He told him he was there and that he wanted to help. 

Sherlock gathered what strength he had and attempted to stand up, but John had to help a little. He stumbled into his room, leaving John on the bare kitchen floor for a moment, returning with a medium sized, plain box. He dropped it in front of John and sat down again. He watched as John opened the box and waited for the sigh of disappointment, the angry yells. He looked up at John’s face and was unexpectedly surprised by what he saw. It looked like heartbreak, pure tragedy, like someone had just destroyed all hope in his life. He could not pick out any disappointment. 

“Sherlock…” John whispered, looking at the contents of the box. There were multiple varieties drugs, cigarettes and some he didn't recognize immediately. A flurry of concern rushed into John’s veins. “Sherlock? Is this why you spent all of your time in your room the last few days?” He didn't expect to get a straight answer, but Sherlock nodded his head yes. “You know I'm going to have to tell Mycroft about this, as much as I honestly don't want to.” Sherlock nodded again, though he didn't entirely understand why John didn't want to tell Mycroft. John closed the box, “I’ll be right back, okay?” He went downstairs and gave the box to Mrs. Hudson and texted Mycroft, giving him the rundown of the past few days. He quickly returned to the kitchen, finding Sherlock in the same place.

The situation was almost too much for John. It felt like something more was going on with Sherlock, something bigger than losing his voice. It had happened to him before, once, after poisoning himself for an experiment, attempting to prove a murder. He ended up in the hospital, suffering from near fatal upper body paralysis. The memories of performing CER on his barely conscious friend haunted him still. He always brushed things off like that as if they were nothing, but John was afraid it had built up in his mind. He didn't want to lose his best friend to anything. 

John couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't possibly make him sound angry or disappointed. He wasn't, he couldn't find a trace of anger or disappointment in his body, just concern. “Because you’re brilliant, Sherlock, because you are the most genius man I have ever met, and you can handle every single fucking thing the world throws at you. I know you can. You can figure anything out.” Sherlock rolled onto his back, his head tilted towards John. He looked down at Sherlock, meeting his gaze. For a moment he wished he had not, he looked so broken, so fragile. John ran a hand through his dark curls, “You’re not alone Sherlock. I know you don't want help, but the moment you even think about the possibility of help, I will be right here and no further.”

Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes, but he blinked them away. No crying for Sherlock Holmes, not today. He rolled back onto his side, but this time closer to John, resting his forehead against his knee. John’s hand returned to Sherlock’s head, he felt trust. He trusted Sherlock with his life, and he hoped Sherlock trusted him with his. “I do.” Sherlock whispered, as if he head read John’s mind. John let the tears he felt spill down his cheeks. 

There was no more hiding things, he decided. If he were upset, Sherlock would know. If he were happy, angry, worried, whatever- Sherlock would know. “No more hiding things, okay?” He said gently, absentmindedly tracing circles with his thumb on Sherlock’s head. “You have my complete trust, Sherlock. You are my best friend, and anything you tell me, anything you do, will go without judgement. No matter what, if you need help on a case, I’ll be there to help.” He stopped there, that was enough information for one night, they’d discuss this later. The trace of a smile crossed Sherlock’s face, the hope John had felt earlier daring to shine a little brighter.

Within moments he saw Sherlock’s eyes roll back into his head and his eyes close, he panicked but was relieved when his pulse immediately started to slow back down. A calm look settled across his face and his whole body relaxed as he succumbed to sleep. John picked him up off the kitchen floor, surprised by how heavy he was. For as little as he ate he seemed to stay healthy. He set Sherlock down on his bed, covered him with blankets and went to leave when something stopped him. He turned around and saw Sherlock’s hand gripping the back of his shirt as tight as possible, which wasn't very. He took the few steps back to the bed and sat down next to it. 

The situation was all too similar to the previous hospital stay and tears threatened to overcome John, but he reminded himself where he was. Sherlock had, finally, started to let him in. See him in moments of vulnerability. He could not take that for granted because their trust had to go two ways. John’s for Sherlock’s, and Sherlock’s for John’s. Their was nothing more John could ask for than Sherlock’s trust. He fell asleep like that, head resting next to Sherlock’s, an odd calm falling over the flat. He decided that that was where he belonged, next to Sherlock. 

Sherlock woke to find John’s head right next to his. He pushed down a wave of embarrassment that threatened to ruin the moment, memories of the previous night coming back in a flash. There were no expectations here, and however odd the feeling was, he didn't feel the immediate need to do something. Of course he wanted to pace around and do things, but boredom was not gnawing at his mind. He could lay there, in his bed, and be fine. 

He stared at John for a while, contemplating his relationship with the man. He never really had friends, as odd a sentence that would probably disturb the average person, but he had never felt the desire to associate with another person in such ways. John kept growing more and more different from those people and he had no real explanation. Maybe it was because he had spent so much time with him, but he was beginning to venture into a realm of relationships he was not at all familiar in. It was more than friendship, he knew that. 

He had long given up trying to explain to people why he had no friends. It wasn't that he didn't want any, that wouldn't have been the reason. He had wanted friends before, but he never knew what to do with those feelings. He knew them quite well, he had grown very fond of John and considered him his best friend, possibly his only. John was the first person to not give up on getting to know him, he tried and fought to work his way into Sherlock’s life. He wanted to understand Sherlock and protect him and help him and understood when Sherlock needed to be alone and when he needed someone and just how to cheer him up and keep him grounded and he could keep the list going of all the things John had done and continued to do for him but it'd be too long. Sherlock wanted John to be forever, never stopping. He still wasn't used to that feeling, though he didn't think he really wanted to, either. 

John stirred after a while, looking up at Sherlock. A tired smile donned his face and warmed Sherlock. He placed his fingers on John’s forehead, “I trust you.” Those were the loudest words he had said since leaving the hospital, though it still was barely a whisper. John reached up and touched his hand to Sherlock’s, thank you he mouthed, laying his head back down. They laid like that for awhile, John thankful for the quiet. Sherlock got up after a few minutes, phone ringing from the living area. He brought it into John, who answered and put it on speaker. 

After putting on decent clothes, as well as wrapping up Sherlock’s hand after getting a bad cut on some shattered glass, they headed out to start the case. Sherlock was lost in thought, as usual, which left John to contemplate how they were going to go about this. It likely wouldn't be bad, high hopes that Anderson would fuck off. Other than that, the previous day had presented no problems. They got out of the cab, walking straight to Mycroft’s office. 

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock said nothing, just stared his brother down. Mycroft returned the stare, not moving an inch. “Sherlock, if this has anything to do with y-” he was interrupted by Sherlock slamming his hands down on the table, John could feel frustration rolling off of him in waves. Mycroft took a folder out of his desk and handed it to Sherlock, grabbing his wrist before he could run off. “This conversation is not over. I’ll be speaking to you soon, Sherlock.”

The cab ride to the station was a descent into calm. It was a first, really, and John didn't expect it to happen again. He decided to enjoy it while it lasted, to watch Sherlock go from angry to as relaxed as he could be. He looked through the file, likely coming up with theories and probabilities and by the time they arrived at the station he had come up with a list of things he wanted John to check up on or research. 

A thought struck him mid-search. Sherlock had gone through extremely quick and above average mood swings in the past few days, to the point where it had begun to prohibit his ability to think correctly. Couple that was a few things he had noticed in the past, handling emotions and social interaction, he decided to do some personal research. After an hour and absolutely no solid results, he decided Sherlock Holmes himself was a case, not that it was a bad thing, and one John didn’t think he could solve fully anytime soon. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to solve it. That didn’t mean he couldn’t help, though, and John had every intention of helping Sherlock as much as he could. With that settled, he returned to his assigned task, making quick work of it. Sherlock arrived back at the flat right as he finished, compiling his notes into one page. 

“Got your information.” He said, looking up as Sherlock immediately retreated to the kitchen. He pulled something from his pocket, taking it out and placing it under a microscope. He walked over, leaning over his shoulder. “What's that?” He asked, and Sherlock stopped for a moment. “DNA of some recent victims, not specifically related to the case but I went through some of the files at the station and saw some physical similarities between them. I'm testing them to see how similar they really are.” John nodded, looking to see how many samples there were, six total. “Let me know if you need any help.” Sherlock nodded and John left him to his work. He left all his notes on the counter for Sherlock to look at and retreated to his bedroom in hopes of a sufficient nap. He had slept through the previous night but worries made him restless. He set an alarm on his phone for an hour later and buried himself under the covers. 

John woke to an empty flat, panic coursing through his veins when no sign of Sherlock turned up. He reached into his pocket to get his phone, remembering quickly that he had left it in his room. Crashing up the stairs, he scrambled to pick up the cell only to find a very recent text from Sherlock. 

Was needed, will pick up dinner on the way back  
SH

John stared at his phone in complete confusion. Usually he would have to text Sherlock a few times, or more likely get it himself, if he wanted take out, but he definitely wasn't going to deny the food. There wasn't much in the flat anyways, some bread and plenty of tea and coffee. He brushed it off, in light of recent events John knew he was likely to see things in places where they weren't. 

Food in hand, Sherlock hailed a cab for what felt like the hundredth time that day. His head was spinning with the case and John and how he was going to handle his own emotions. It was taking a lot of effort not to just give up on it all. He used the ride home to sort out his thoughts, he had the information he needed for the case and was going to send it to Lestrade. Then he would get to work on an experiment, hopefully one John wouldn’t become too curious about, and then maybe he’d consider sleep. 

The cab dropped him right in front of the door. He said hello to Mrs. Hudson on his way in, she seemed surprised by this, and dropped the food on the counter. The noise brought John out of his room, rubbing his eyes. He smiled at the sight of food, but frowned a moment later. “Sherlock, there's only one thing in here.” Sherlock looked up, “Yes. For you.” John sighed, sitting down in front of him. “You need to eat.” He said, as if there was no question of it, he was going to make Sherlock eat something, even if it was going to be the death of him. 

Sherlock protested for a good while, “There’s bread in the cabinet’s, John.” That wasn't a good enough excuse for him though, and the insisting continued. “Sherlock you’re going to end up collapsing and I will take the opportunity to say ‘I told you so’ when that happens.” That caught Sherlock’s attention. He did not like being bested, so he reluctantly took a few bites of food from John’s plate. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock looked up at John, confused as to why he had thanked him. “What for?” He asked, curious. John cocked his head to the side ever so slightly, mirroring the confusion. “For eating? Sherlock- you barely eat. You weigh much too little for your size and on top of that you barely sleep. Ask yourself, when was the last time you really slept.” He sighed, pushing his plate towards Sherlock, leaving what was rest for him to take. 

He walked into the living area and sat down in his chair, pulling up a draft for the write up of their most current case. A triumphant smile crossed his lips when he heard the gentle pull of a plate across the table, quiet clicks of a fork against the ceramic echoing softly in the flat. One tiny success.


End file.
